


You Can Fix This

by Emilightning



Category: Who Killed Markiplier, markiplier - Fandom
Genre: Multi
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-09-17
Updated: 2018-10-15
Packaged: 2019-07-13 16:15:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 19,311
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16021478
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Emilightning/pseuds/Emilightning
Summary: You made your choice, and so they left you in the void. But it seems the house has other plans for you now, and suddenly you're back where it all began.





	1. Chapter 1

How did it come to this?

“I can’t do it,” you say, so quietly you almost can’t hear yourself. 

But Damien hears you, and the look on his face almost makes you retract your words. He really thought you’d go along with this idea— and it’s tempting, you can admit that much to yourself. You take a moment to collect your thoughts, avoiding his eyes, though the hurt in them has already sunk in, burning the guilt into your brain. There’s nothing you want more than to help him, and you would give up your body, you’re certain you would… if it weren’t for the slight wrongness of all this.

_Wrong_. Something about this whole situation is wrong. You can’t put your finger on what, exactly, but it’s enough to make you hesitate, and they understand that means you can’t bring yourself to go through with it. 

“I need you,” he says quietly, earnestly. “I— we can’t do this without you.” He holds out his hand in offering. It’s killing you not to reach out and take it, but you can hear that hint of desperation in his tone. That slight, subtle tremor that suggests to you that he may not be thinking entirely rationally. No matter how much you want to help, some instinct deep within you understands that it can’t be done like this. 

With all the strength in your non-body, you force yourself to take one definitive step backwards, shaking your head sadly. And with that, not another word needs to be said. Celine’s eyes burn with a venomous mixture of disgust and frustration; it’s clear that she has a few choice words she’d like to say to you. Of course, that doesn’t matter anymore. Normally it would break you, having such contempt directed at you and knowing it’s because of your own choices. But being dead has put a new perspective on things, and you can’t bring yourself to care. It almost feels good, knowing that the playing field is leveled like this, that you hold all the cards right now. You just can’t rush into this kind of decision, no matter how intimidated you are. Certainly nothing will ever be the same anyway; going back isn’t some sort of second chance at life. Your life, as it existed as solely ‘yours’, is over. 

So what, really, what does it matter? What does it matter that Damien won’t even look at you right now? What does it matter that you’ve just burned your last bridge, broken the last tie you had to the world you’ve known? 

You watch them turn, wordlessly, and walk away from you. It seems to take forever before they vanish completely, leaving nothing but empty… well, _nothingness_ all around you. 

He doesn’t look back even once. 

And then you’re on your own.

The blackness is so thoroughly disorienting at first that you stumble and nearly fall over when you first try to take a few steps forward. There’s no direction here; you could be walking upside-down for all you know. It takes a minute to get used to, but eventually you regain some semblance of coordination. You start to walk faster, and you don’t stop. 

Subconsciously, you suppose, you’re trying to follow them, but you don’t really want to catch up with them. You want to find another way out. Any other way. There has to be something, right? Your steps keep quickening until you’re running at an impossible speed, faster than you ever remember being able to run before. You’re dimly aware there’s a good chance you’re just going in giant circles, but somehow it doesn’t matter. The sensation of sprinting without feeling any real exertion is oddly satisfying but also frighteningly inhuman. The longer you go without needing to slow down, to catch your breath, the more it sinks in that you aren’t really running at all. You have nothing to run _with_ , you have nothing to chase or catch up to, and you might as well be an animal chasing its tail in how pointless and futile the whole thing is. But still, you keep running. Because stopping means giving up and giving up means succumbing to the void. 

After some time— hours maybe, who knows— you’re panicking. You feel nothing at all. You’re beginning to shut down, your mind growing numb, and you don’t know if that’s just your usual habit of repressing emotions to keep yourself together, or if it means you’re ceasing to exist completely. 

_Where’s the exit_? you ask yourself over and over, in your head and out loud, but both sound the same. You try screaming incoherently, wordlessly, but that doesn’t make a difference either. Nobody’s coming.

Hours, days, years, seconds? How long are you left there, sprinting in circles? 

All you know is that you don’t remember closing your eyes, but when you open them, you’re back standing once again in front of the house. 

The early evening sun is glowing and a quick glance around shows nothing out of the ordinary— well, no physical abnormalities anyway; it’s definitely not normal that you’ve apparently been transported out of the void and back into the living world with no explanation or reason. But you decide to go along with it. Anything’s better than being in there alone. 

You look down at yourself for any evidence of the gunshot wound you sustained last time you were here, and to your faint surprise, you find yourself intact. Your right hand absently brushes the spot where the Colonel shot you, and you notice that your watch shows it’s just after six o’clock. 

_Wait— your watch?_

You know for a fact that you had it on when you first arrived here, but you’re certain that it wasn’t on your wrist when you woke up that following morning. Someone— you can’t remember who, maybe Mark— had won it from you in the drunken midst of a round of poker. 

_Who gave it back to you, then? And why?_

The idea of someone putting it back on you disturbs you a little, so you run your hands across your clothes to make sure there’s nothing else out of place (or wrongly _in_ place, rather). But there is. 

In your pocket lies a familiar small white square of paper. The invitation to the party. 

Your legs almost give out from under you. 

Frantically, you look up towards the front door, and sure enough, he’s there. The Colonel stands there in the entranceway, hands on his hips, shaking his head slightly at the sight of the mansion. Identical to how he appeared the very first time you saw him. His coat isn’t stained with blood, the expression on his face is, although an odd mix of subtle disapproval and mischief, completely sane and composed. 

This _can’t_ be what’s happening. Out of every strange, unlikely, and even impossible occurrence that’s happened in the past couple of days, this is the most insane by far. There has to be some other explanation for this. It’s a dream. It’s a house-void-induced hallucination. It’s your own mind trying to keep itself from breaking by repeating this memory. 

It must be. Because if it’s not, if you are in fact back at the beginning of that night, before everything went horribly wrong, before the party even began, then you must be the only one who knows about it.  

And… if that’s true, then you’re the only one who can do anything to prevent it.

_Fuck._

————————————————————

Not knowing what else you could possibly do in this situation, you approach the front door as you did before. 

This time, though, you speak first. 

“Hello.”

He turns around, startled to hear someone behind him. “Ah! You surprised me. I expected I’d be the last one here.”

“No, not to worry. That’d be me.” You really don’t have any idea how to handle this, so you just try to keep your voice steady.

Your answer causes him to chuckle. “Well, good to meet you anyway. My friends call me the Colonel; you’re welcome to do the same.” That same little formal bow again. It makes you smile slightly. He really is trying, you think, to be your friend. If only everything had worked out differently, you’re sure you could have been. Despite everything, you don’t hate him. You can’t.

“It’s a pleasure to meet you, too,” you say as warmly as you can manage under the circumstances. This still has you shaken; you move forward only because you know you have to, because you can’t let anyone else know what’s happened. Would they even believe you?

…Well. You know one person who might. 

And as you’re lead into the house by the pleasant but slightly anxious-looking butler once again, you see him. He’s standing in the same place, in the living room, the beginning of the sunset glowing through the window behind him, making him look ridiculously beautiful and golden. That smile of his, the one you know so well, is back again. This isn’t the same man who spoke to you in the void— that was only part of the Damien you know, a broken piece. But the one you’re looking at right now, you’d trust him with anything at all. You can’t hold back from staring at him for a moment, and you feel your face break into a huge grin. 

It takes all your self-control not to run up and hug him and do all you can to convince him to leave with you right now. Before anything has a chance to hurt him. You aren’t going to let him get hurt this time. You swear that to yourself silently and pray you’ll have the knowledge, the power, to stop this. 

He turns to you and even though you know it’s coming, the brightness and warmth of that smile catches you off guard. Your breath catches in your throat, but you try to listen to what he says to you. 

“—How are you liking your new office?” you catch him asking.

That’s right, you have a job. A life. This house isn’t the only place that exists, despite how it feels. “Oh well, it’s… fine,” you answer hesitantly, trying to sound as nonchalant as possible. 

He gives you a quizzical look. “Is everything all right? You look tired.” 

Something makes you think you should refrain from telling him that you look that way because just a few hours ago (well, that’s what it felt like anyway) you were dead and abandoned in some sort of purgatory, by him no less. (But you’re not going to think about that now. This is the _real_ Damien you’re talking to.)  “Everything’s fine,” you tell him, offering what you think is a reassuring smile but it feels only half-convincing. 

Sure enough, he doesn’t seem to buy it. “Y/N? I know it’s a lot to take on right now, but you know how I believe in you. There’s no one else I’d rather have by my side.”

The same sentiment he expressed to you the first time around, yet this time it brings a sting of tears into your eyes. It’s weighted with so much more now.— you want to trust him, want to _prove_ that you trust him, desperately. You nod, keeping your head down to hide your reddening face, but of course he sees and you speak quickly when you see the look of surprised concern on his face. “Don’t worry about it, Damien, really.” You take a second to make sure you can keep your composure, exhaling slowly. “It’s just— I’m just glad to see you, that’s all.”

The concerned expression doesn’t disappear, but he decides not to push the matter. “Well, if you’re sure you’re all right. I suppose it’s pretty flattering that just seeing me brings this kind of reaction from you.” A gentle smile, and you’re able to push your worries to the back of your mind for now. 

You still can’t imagine why you’re here, why you’re being given this re-do on what was by far the worst night of your short life, but you know you can’t waste it. The first thing, the most important thing for you to do above all, is to protect Damien. As long as you can do that, everything else will fall into place. 

You hope.


	2. Chapter 2

He looks like shit.

You’re surprised you didn’t notice it the first time around, but Mark really does look like… well, death. Standing much closer to him now than you did before, and knowing what you know, it’s blatantly obvious that he’s not okay. His eyes are hollow but manic, with deep bruise-colored bags underneath, prominent against his ashen skin. And that’s just the face— you don’t want to think about what you’d find underneath his robe. 

_Thirty-seven times._  Goddamn. You don’t know if it’s more disturbing that he’d choose such a brutal and painful method, or that somehow it  _still_  didn’t work.   
Now that you think about it, in fact, it makes sense that he’d want everyone to be drunk for this final attempt— drunken eyes miss things, and sure enough, nobody suspected a thing that night. It worked out far too well, and part of you feels a tug of doubt; maybe you’re already too late. Maybe none of you should have come at all.

You take a sip of your champagne, partly to calm your nerves and partly to hide any expression that might potentially give you away as you listen to Mark’s soliloquy. 

“… Who knows?” he’s saying with a smirk. “I could be dead tomorrow.”

A shudder runs through you and the drink turns sour in your mouth. You don’t want to listen anymore, and you certainly don’t want to talk to him alone. The way he laughs sounds so bitter and cold; maybe it’s just your imagination, but it sounds like he’s enjoying this.

It shouldn’t really surprise you, you realize. He does know exactly what he’s doing; this was all done as some sort of twisted revenge on the Colonel and Celine, and maybe even Damien— who, as far as you know, did his best to stay out of the messy affair between his sister and his closest friends, but you suppose that through Mark’s eyes, anyone who wasn’t on his side was against him. Neutrality wasn’t an option. 

Part of you wonders how much of that was really Mark, your friend, and how much came from the house’s influence… but regardless, he  _did_  steal Damien’s body. That’s something you still can’t really fathom, and you want answers. You  _need_  to know why he felt the need to drag everyone else into this. He may have been selfish, but he was still your friend. At least, that’s what you thought. The time you’ve spent in this house has certainly done well to challenge everything you thought you knew.

_————————————_

Everyone’s mingling still, but you know the first round of poker will be starting soon. Now’s your chance.

“Mark,” you say, catching him just as he’s slipping out of the parlor, obviously trying to go unnoticed. 

He turns around, clearly not expecting to see anybody following him. 

“Ah, Y/N! Glad you could make it tonight, what with your new job keeping you so busy.” 

“I— of course I came,” you say, wanting first to try and lead him into trusting you. Then you’ll go from there. “It’s been awhile since I’ve seen you. I’d like to ask, though… how have you been?” You look at him with a slight amount of sympathy, but not enough to give yourself away. 

“Well, I’ve been excellent, thank you,” he replies, a little too quickly. Very, very casually, he picks up another glass of champagne off the butler’s tray and hands it to you. You accept but don’t drink it yet. It’s painfully obvious to you that he wants you to pay as little attention to him as possible. 

(This, you note with some amusement, should be your first clue that something is out of the ordinary with him.)

Cautiously, you press on. “Well, it’s been so long since I’ve seen you properly. I’ve been really anticipating talking with you.”  _Not entirely a lie_ , you tell yourself. 

His smooth smile doesn’t falter, but you can see in his eyes that he knows he’s trapped for the moment and he’s looking for a way to divert your attention.   
 _Well, two can play at that game_ , you think. “I was actually hoping I’d finally be able to meet Celine tonight.”

There. It works as expected; he’s caught completely off guard. Of course he’s kept the affair a secret to avoid public scandal, and as far as everyone not directly involved knows, he and Celine are still happily married. But it’s been so long since he’s left his house that he hasn’t had to pretend for anyone for awhile. It’s clear from the look on his face that you’ve opened a fresh wound. Guilt tugs at you briefly, but you know you need to stand your ground now.

After taking a long sip of his drink— which is another thing, you’ve really only just realized; you haven’t seen him drink socially in years— he looks at you and responds noncommittally, “She won’t be joining us this evening, I’m afraid. She has other… affairs to attend to.” 

Your eyes widen; you can’t help it. The way he says is is so casual, so blasé, that it’s almost a little funny. But you realize immediately that it’s too late to cover your surprise. Mark’s seen your reaction, and it tells him more than enough. He just raises one eyebrow and smirks. 

“Aha. I knew Damien couldn’t keep himself from telling you. He swore up and down he wouldn’t, but I’m not stupid, Y/N. I know he tells you everything.”

You shake your head, perhaps a little too emphatically. “No. He didn’t tell me, I promise. He doesn’t even know that I know.” 

He scoffs, clearly not convinced, but the two of you are interrupted by the detective as he comes over to introduce himself to you ( _so his name is Abe; why didn’t you bother to learn that before?_ ) and chat with Mark. You excuse yourself after a moment, glad to have more time to prepare for the confrontation that will almost certainly have to continue later.

Not too long after that, a game begins at the round table in the corner. The butler— whose name, you learn, is Benjamin— continues to serve more drinks than necessary, clearly under Mark’s instructions. Unsurprisingly, it’s hard for you to focus on playing poker, and you end up losing a lot more often than you did the first time around. The others poke fun at you for it, and you take it in stride. What else can you do?

“Well, let’s see,” Mark muses as the third round begins (or is it the fourth? You can’t really tell; unfortunately, in your desperation to calm your panic, you’ve probably drunk more than you should in this situation). “Y/N, surely you can do better than that. Maybe you something to motivate you to play to your full potential.”

You stiffen slightly, now on your guard. This didn’t happen before, you’re sure of that.   
“Oh?” is all you manage to say.  _Clever._

Mark is shuffling the cards with impressive dexterity, not breaking eye contact with you as he starts to offer his wager. “If you lose this round…” He smiles mischievously; you can see his eyes light up as he settles on the stakes. “You’ll have to kiss Damien.”

The Colonel and Abe both laugh out loud; the former especially sounds particularly giddy at the prospect. 

You’re less amused, however.  _“What?_  I— you’re joking.” It’s more of the unexpected nature of the dare than any unwillingness on your part, but you’re suddenly terrified. “Come on, be serious.”

“Oh come now, Y/N,” Mark says jovially, “you know I’m  _dead_  serious.” 

Nobody else notices, of course, but you do, and your flushed face drains of color slightly. He’s trapped you. You have to play this off as embarrassment, or else everything will be ruined. “Well… fine then, but if  _you_  lose the round, then  _you_  have to kiss Damien.” 

The words leave your mouth easily, and you’re thankful for that. To any uninformed observer, this looks like just some teasing banter between friends. William laughs even harder (you get the impression that he’s fairly intoxicated already, but still, part of you is glad to have made him laugh), and Damien raises his eyebrows as high as they can go. 

“Why is it  _me_?” he protests indignantly, trying to play it off cooly, but you can see how deeply he’s blushing. For a second, you consider taking it back so as not to embarrass him, but then he shakes his head and lets out a resigned laugh. “All right, well then. I suppose this is a challenge for me to lose this round.” 

This makes everyone chuckle. The game begins.

_————————————_

You try. 

At least you’d like to convince yourself that you’re trying your hardest, but you’ve never been very good at keeping a neutral face anyway, and your diminished concentration (and all right, perhaps some subconscious, well… curiosity) essentially guarantees that you lose the round in less than fifteen minutes. If you’re being honest with yourself, you never stood a chance. Your beloved host is clearly trying to distract you by any means possible, and it’s working.

Mark shakes his head in mock disappointment at you. “Well, well, seems like you’re not exactly on the top of your game tonight. One might almost think you’ve had something  _else_  on your mind entirely this whole time.” 

_Bastard._  “Well, I don’t play well under pressure,” you mumble, taking another sip of the cocktail you’ve been holding onto for a bit.

Damien looks at you, sensing your embarrassment; you try to avoid his eyes. “It’s fine, Y/N, you don’t really have to—”

“Oh yes, you do!” Mark and William say in unison, cutting him off a little too enthusiastically. They exchange surprised looks followed by slightly warmer smiles, which you take as a good sign. 

“Be nice to them,” Damien chides his friends, but you can see that even he’s suppressing a grin. Whether it’s due to the drinks and lively atmosphere, the fact that the Colonel and Mark finally seem to be reconciling their differences, or— do you even dare to think that he might be smiling at the thought of you having to kiss him? Surely, you think, it’s laughter that he’s holding back more than anything. 

“It’s— it’s not really any trouble,” you rush to say before your nerve leaves you. “I mean, I don’t mind. I agreed to it, after all. If, well, if you don’t mind, that is.” 

You wince slightly at how much you’re stammering, but Damien looks… pleased? 

“Not at all. It’s certainly not the worst possible outcome of that wager, anyway.” He gives Mark a pointed look, earning another round of laughter from the table. 

Your seats are technically next to each other, but you still have to stand up and take a step over to him in order to be close enough to reach him. He stands as well, a few inches taller than you but not so tall that you can’t lean up a little and press your lips to his. 

So that’s what you do. 

It’s not as awkward as you thought it would be; in fact, it feels pretty natural. And warm. You can’t deny that. 

It doesn’t last very long; only a few seconds pass before you both lean back, not daring to make eye contact. You know you’re already a little flushed from the alcohol, but your face is burning now. A side glance confirms that Damien is just as red as you are. But he’s smiling.

The Colonel, Abe, and Mark raise their glasses in mock toast. They spend the next hour or so grinning cheekily and making the occasional comment that makes you either shoot them a death glare or stare down at the table, feigning deep interest in your hand of cards. 

At some point, you feel a brief reassuring squeeze on your shoulder from Damien, and it helps you relax a little. 

_————————————_

The game is abandoned eventually, as you knew would happen, and the group splits off to begin some absurd drinking challenges. You politely decline this time; your head isn’t completely clear, but you still haven’t forgotten what you need to do here, even if the answer to why you’re here at all still eludes you.

Your watch reads 10:24 when Mark pulls you down into the wine cellar, requesting to speak with you alone.


	3. Chapter 3

You wonder if he can hear your heart pounding in the dim light of the cellar. The feeling of dread is tangible in the air. Nothing good happened down here before; why would this time be any different? 

_But it will be different, of course it will… right? He just brought you down here to talk. You won’t do anything stupid, and everything will be fine._  
Telling yourself that slows your heart rate down only a fraction.

He seems to tower over you, his dark eyes shining more than they have all night. “So, Y/N,” he begins. “Would you care to tell me why you’ve been acting so on edge tonight?” 

No point in denying it. “I’m worried about you,” you blurt out. “Not just because of… of what happened with Celine, but because— well, I’ll be honest with you; I think something terrible is going to happen tonight. I know how silly that might sound, but please believe me. Please don’t put yourself in any situation where you might get hurt. Just… just stay with the group, okay?” 

You watch his face carefully as your warning sinks in, but what you don’t expect to see is a smile. But smile he does, though it’s not friendly in the least. He laughs, but the amusement, you can tell, comes from a deep-rooted place of cynicism and perhaps even contempt. It frightens you.

But not nearly as much as his next words.

“Y/N. What do you know?”

It takes a second for you to process his question and the implications behind it. “What, uh- what do you mean?”

He just looks at you with a bemused expression. “You heard me. I’m not surprised really, but I would like to know exactly how much you know. It’ll make things a lot easier for the both of us. And for everyone else here too.”

You don’t even want to think about what that could mean; you can’t risk it. “I just- Mark, listen, I know what you’re planning to… to have happen tonight, and I can tell you— nobody here wants that. At all. It’ll only make everything worse.”

“Worse? Maybe.” Mark leans back agains the brick wall, folding his arms. “But what if they’re going to get worse no matter what? Have you considered that? What if  _this_ —” he sweeps his hand in a gesture that indicates this whole night as ‘this’ “—is the best possible outcome now? What if everyone here is fucked regardless?” There’s a note of something darker in his tone now, almost anger.

What are you supposed to say to that? “I don’t know,” you answer quietly, choosing to be honest. “But listen, I’ve seen it already. Tonight and just… everything that comes after it, it doesn’t end well for anyone. And maybe you think you don’t care, but Mark, you don’t _really_  want that, do you?” 

You don’t know if he does or not; in fact, evidence would indicate that he does indeed want that. But you have to try. 

Instead, though, he catches on to another thing you said. “You’ve  _seen_  it.” He doesn’t seem surprised. 

“Yes,” you confirm, closing your eyes for a second as the memories hit you. “I was there. Here.”

“Interesting… I can believe that.” He looks you straight in the eyes, holding your stare for a long time. When you finally look away, he exhales in a way that’s almost a sigh but not quite. “I don’t know the extent of what this house can do, but from the minute you approached me tonight, I could tell you were influenced by it. In some way.”

You don’t even know how to respond to that. To your surprise, he pulls out a cigarette and lights it. “I didn’t know you smoked,” is all you can say.

He laughs, the smoke clouding around him. “I didn’t until recently. But why the hell not, right?” 

He takes another drag before turning to look at you again. This time, he seems to be looking for something that’s not visible, but he can’t seem to find it. “All right, I’ll ask you, then. What did it do to you? You’ve never been here before tonight, so I can guess you’re probably from another… outcome, I suppose. You lived through that, and now somehow you’ve wound up here.”   
He slides down the wall until he’s sitting on the cold floor, looking up at you expectedly. “Want to tell me the rest?”

You briefly consider joining him. It might help just to be honest, to tell him everything that you know. It might give you a better chance of convincing him to give this up.

But that feeling hits you again suddenly, that biting feeling that no matter how much you’d like to trust him, something is _wrong_. You shouldn’t. Too risky. 

You remain standing, deciding not to take the bait. 

“I don’t understand it even a little bit,” you tell him. ( _Now there’s the most certain truth you’ve told all night._ ) “All you need to know is that I died and somehow, instead of coming back like you, I ended up back here. Back before any of it even happened.” 

You pause for a moment, waiting to see how he’ll react to this. When he doesn’t say anything, you end your explanation with what your heart tells you to be true. “And now… now I need to stop it from happening. But I can’t do that without your help.”

Even with the bad lighting, you can see the pain and consideration on Mark’s face as your words sink in. He sighs. “Listen, Y/N—”

Whatever he’s about to say is cut off by a flood of light as the cellar door opens. He scrambles to his feet, stomping the cigarette out and grabbing the first bottle of wine he touches from the shelves. 

“Aha, this is the one!” His tone has changed completely, though by now it’s painfully obvious to you that he’s been putting on this lighthearted facade for the sake of the unsuspecting guests.

Footsteps approach down the stairs, and you see that it’s Benjamin who interrupted you, looking surprised and somehow confused. 

“Oh, excuse me, sir,” he addresses Mark apologetically. “I’m not sure why I came down here… it seems to have slipped my mind.”

Mark waves him off with a grin that impresses you— you suppose he is an actor, after all, so it probably shouldn’t be so surprising that he’s able to act fine so convincingly.

“Oh, don’t worry about that,” he tells Benjamin, handing over the wine bottle. “Do me a favor, will you, and go open that. We’ll be back up shortly.”   
He doesn’t drop his smile until the door is closed once again, leaving you two alone. “Fuck,” he groans quietly, knotting his hand through his hair. 

“What’s wrong?” you ask. 

“You don’t understand, do you,” he sighs heavily. “He didn’t mean to come down here. He wasn’t planning to come down here. But the house, it lead him here anyway. It  _listens_ , Y/N. It can make us all do whatever it wants to do.You think you just ended up back here at random, by coincidence? It’s the house. _It_ brought you here, and you might think that this is your miracle second chance to make everything right, but the fact is that it’s going to make you play by  _its_ rules. And there’s nothing you can do about it.”

He pulls out another cigarette, clenches it between his teeth without bothering to light it, and turns to go back upstairs. Halfway up, he turns back around to see you still standing at the foot of the staircase, stunned and trying to process it all. “Believe me. I’ve tried.”

—————————————

Nothing.  _Nothing._ There’s nothing you can do. 

His words echo through your head as you stand in the darkness for several minutes, not even bothering to find a light. They play over and over as you blindly grab a bottle of wine, wrestle it open, and take several long sips. Why should you care? Like Mark himself said, you’re fucked regardless. 

Foolishly (you know it’s foolish, but controlling your impulses when you’re under stress has never been your strong suit), you keep drinking until the edge wears off and you feel a little calmer.  

And then you decide to finish the bottle. You consider it compensation for all the bullshit you’ve gone through. 

Deep down you know that this isn’t going to help things, but for the moment you don’t care. What was it that William told you before, in the other reality? Something about life needing madness. Maybe he has the right idea, you think as you numbly let the empty bottle roll away from your feet. 

You stand up and, suddenly full of rage, you turn and face the wall. “Fuck you,” you say directly to the house. Just to make it clear that you’re addressing it, you add for good measure, “Fuck you, house!” You pick up the bottle off the ground and smash it against the bricks. “That’s for hurting my friends… and letting Mark take Damien’s body… and for sending me back here to do it all over again!” 

You’re almost shouting by the time you finish, and in a fit of stupidity, you punch the wall as hard as you can.

Pain instantly shoots through your hand, and you have to stifle a yell, biting down on your other hand as you clutch the injured one to your chest. Fuck. That was… well, in retrospect, you don’t know what you expected to happen.  
Now, feeling like an idiot and nursing a bruised hand, you sink back down onto the floor in defeat.

“Why…” you mumble to yourself. “Why’d you have to bring me here?” You don’t know if you’re talking to Mark for inviting you in the first place or the house for sticking you in some sort of sick time loop. Something wet rolls down your cheek, and for a second you think you might have spilled wine all over your face. Oh. No, you’re crying. 

You aren’t much of a crier, but suddenly everything seems to hit you at once and you can’t stop the tears once they start. You don’t even bother trying to wipe them away. Everything’s a mess; it fits. 

You’ve been sitting in here too long. They’ll be looking for you… or maybe they won’t. You know that as soon as you leave this room you’ll have to face reality, or this version of it, again. The idea isn’t exactly appealing. 

_But maybe… maybe it’s not too late,_  you find yourself thinking through all the fuzzy half-thoughts. One-thirty. Wasn’t when Mark got killed? There must still be time to change things. 

You might not be able to stop the house from doing what it wants, but you’ll be damned if you just sit passively and take it. Cursing yourself for sitting in here drowning your sorrows when you could have been at least _trying_  to fix things, you clumsily get to your feet, feeling your way through the darkness, down the wall and back to the staircase. 

You’re not sure why you still don’t bother to look for the light; it just doesn’t really occur to you. This proves to be a mistake, you realize, as about halfway up the stairs you lose your footing and fall. The pain doesn’t really register until you’re lying half on the bottom stair and half on the floor beneath, too stunned to really do anything about it.

And then you realize you can see everything around you. There’s a light on somewhere. Whatever stairs you tripped on, you’ve somehow landed at the bottom of a completely different set. 

_Why the fuck does this house have so many staircases anyway?_  you ask yourself before slipping under into darkness.

———————————————————— 

It isn’t too long that you’re left there, you don’t think. After all, the stairs are at the front of the house, near the party. Thankfully it’s Damien who happens to walk by and notice you. Just like before. 

Some things are inevitable, you suppose.

“Y/N?” he says, confused at first in his own drunken state. When you don’t respond, he’s over you in a split second, frantically checking to make sure you’re still in one piece. “Y/N, can you hear me?”

It takes a few seconds, but finally it registers in your brain and you mumble a hoarse “Yes…” and bring your hand up to your throbbing head, blinking a couple times until things clear up slightly. 

Sure enough, Damien looks just as concerned as he did last time. And a lot more frightened, you notice. You feel a little bad about that, but you suppose it can’t be helped now.

“What happened?” he asks you, looking unsure of whether to keep you there or let you move. He eventually resolves to just help you sit up. Sort of. You can’t really keep yourself in any sort of vertical position for too long. “I’ve been looking for you everywhere.”

Even if you were coherent enough, you feel like right now isn’t the best time to tell him that the house is evidently trying to kill you, or at least paralyze you. 

“I… guess I just fell down the stairs,” you say. That seems to take a significant effort out of you, and you realize you’re slumping forward only when Damien gently lifts you back up by the shoulders. “Sorry…”

He doesn’t let go. “No, don’t be… don’t be sorry. I was just afraid you’d gotten hurt.” He looks around, behind him and down the hallway, and sees that nobody’s around. “Everyone was enjoying themselves, and I saw you talking with Mark earlier, so I asked him where you’d gone but he said he didn’t know, so I…” 

“He said that?” you question, wincing as your (probably very bruised) body starts to demand more attention from your brain. “I was downstairs, that’s all. He should’ve…” 

You trail off as you realize it might be complicated to explain how you ended up at the foot of the front hall stairs, and why Mark left you alone in the wine cellar. You decide to just drop it and just say as casually as you can manage, “Never mind. Where’d he go off to, anyway?”

According to your watch, it’s just after midnight. Things still seem to be fine, but it seems you’ll be forced to go lie down earlier than you did last time.

Damien shakes his head. “I’m not sure. They were all just settling down a bit.” He pauses and adds, “Mark and the Colonel seem to be getting along much better than I thought they would, under the circumstances.” Realizing what he just said, he quickly tries to cover it up. “I mean, after not seeing one another for awhile, they…” 

“It’s all right,” you tell him. “I already know about… everything.” The look on his face, a mix of dismay and concern and tiredness, makes you feel awful for some reason, so you immediately reassure him. “It’s going to be okay, Damien. Everybody’s here tonight and… and it’s all going to work out, you know?” 

Thankfully, he doesn’t seem to notice that you’re lying through your teeth. You just don’t want to cause him any more pain. 

“Here.” He cautiously helps you to your feet, ensuring you haven’t damaged yourself too badly. And then you’re caught entirely off guard as he lifts you bridal-style and begins to carry you up the stairs.

“Wha- you don’t have to do that,” is your first reaction for some reason. Even though you don’t mind in the slightest. And you know for a fact you won’t be able to climb these stairs alone. 

He shakes his head and smiles a little. “What kind of friend would I be if I took the risk of you falling down the stairs again?” 

Returning the smile, you answer, “A smart one, probably. It was my fault anyway. You’d think I’d have learned my lesson this time around... ” You cut yourself off before you can let your drunken brain ramble any further. 

Fortunately, he seems not to notice. Or maybe he just thought you were referring to all the times you made a fool of yourself like this at university. 

He never held any of those instances against you, either. 

You can’t help but wonder what you’ve done to deserve a friend like him, and it sends a stabbing pain through your head as you angrily think, once again, about how he didn’t deserve to be dragged into all this. 

As you reach the top of the stairs, you’re surprised as he continues to carry you all the way to the guest bedroom. You assume he did this last time too— who else would have, after all— but it’s different now that you’re more conscious and aware of what’s going on. You feel your face reddening for the hundredth time as you’re set down onto the bed as gently as if you were made of glass.

He stands there, hesitating for a moment, unsure of what to do next. And in that moment of hesitation, the leftover alcohol and slight adrenaline in your head kicks in. 

“Stay with me. Please.”

A look of surprise crosses his face, but you can tell it’s a pleasant surprise. “All right. I mean, yes, of course. I will.” 

He sits down on the bed, leaving a respectable amount of distance between the two of you, but you don’t feel like pretending to be respectable anymore. “Hey, Dames?”

Glancing at you with a fond smile at the nickname you rarely use anymore, he says, “Yes, Y/N?”

As much as you’re dying to, as much as you trust him, you know you can’t tell him everything. Not yet. So without letting yourself think, you rush to tell him the secondary thing that’s been on your mind all night. 

“About earlier tonight. After that game. I… wanted to apologize, if it was uncomfortable for you. I was put on the spot like that, and I didn’t have any time to think about it. And it might not have been very… good.” 

Your lack of eloquence makes you wince, but somehow Damien seems to pick up on exactly what you’re saying.

“Ah. I see,” he says, his smile growing a little wider. “Forgive me if I’m mistaken, Y/N, but if you were wishing for a chance to redeem yourself…” 

Your breath catches in your throat as he moves closer to you, close enough to touch, but he waits to see what you’ll say.

What you say is simply, “I was. If you’ll let me.” 

Everything falls into place perfectly. Despite the pain in your body, despite the knowledge in your mind, despite all the fear and confusion each of you hold inside, there’s a moment when it feels…   
 _Right._

You kiss him, and this time it’s met with a longing that matches your own. It fuels everything you’ve held in your heart, and you let yourself be consumed by it for the first time in a very long time. 

As much as you wish it could last forever, eventually he reluctantly breaks away as it begins to get more heated. “I… I hope this is all right,” he says quietly— partly to himself, you think. “I mean, I know I’m drunk, and I know you’re probably even more drunk…” 

“It’s okay,” you reassure him; your voice is a little strained from the excitement. “I don’t care.” 

It seems for a moment as if he wants to move back in, but slowly he shakes his head. “No… I care, though. I want it to be right.” He sees the look of disappointment on your face and carefully brushes a lock of hair away from your face. “Don’t worry. I won’t forget,” he murmurs in your ear as he begins to stand up to leave. 

“As if I would let you,” you retort, tiredness beginning to overtake you. As your eyes grow too heavy to keep open, you see him smile at you again. 

“Please, come find me in the morning,” he requests. “If… if you want, I mean.” 

“Of course,” you tell him just before he closes the door. “Of course I will.”

————————————————————

You fall asleep with no trouble, not thinking about all the ways the house has planned to make tomorrow even worse than before.


	4. Chapter 4

You know where you are, but not why or how.

“Wha—?” You frantically look around, feeling your heart pound as it sinks in that you’re back _here._ “No!”

“Don’t worry,” you hear a familiar voice say behind you. “You’re not stuck here; I just brought you in for a minute.” 

You turn around and see Mark waiting for you in the midst of the endless blackness, looking somehow both smug and defeated all at once. There’s no visible wounds on his body at the moment, but you realize with a sinking feeling that if you were to see his body back in the real world, it would tell a different story. 

“So,” you say flatly, “you’re dead anyway, then?” 

He shrugs. “For now. Don’t feel too badly about it, there wasn’t really anything you could have done at this point.”

You give him a suspicious look. “What do you mean, ‘for now’?”

The grin he gives you makes you want to smack him. “I guess you’ll find out. That’s part of the fun, isn’t it?” 

Without realizing what you’re doing, you grab him by the collar of his silk robe and look him in the eye. “Listen to me right now. I want to help you, but I’m not here to play games. If you even _think_ about trying to use anyone else’s body to come back, I’ll make you wish you could stay dead.” 

Mark brushes you off, scoffing indignantly and straightening his robe. “Oh, please. What would I have to gain from using just _anyone’s_ body? I guarantee you, your dear Damien isn’t in any danger of that.”

“Oh really?” you snap, remembering your panic upon realizing Damien had disappeared… and your sinking hopelessness when you found him trapped in the same void as you were. “Because he certainly was last time I was here. Care to explain that?” 

Another shrug from him. “I must have had my reasons.” The pure rage in your eyes causes him to amend his answer; even he knows that’s too far. “All right, I don’t know. I don’t know why I did that.” 

You shake your head, attempting to block the memory. Your body grows tense with frustration and you focus back on Mark. “Well, what do you want then?” The void has a way of making you feel restless, on edge, and it surprises you how quickly that can take its toll on your brain. Only a few minutes in (that’s how it feels, anyway; it’s hard to tell) and you’re already desperate to be out. ( _But not desperate enough to consider stealing your friend’s body_ , you think dryly.)

“Well, I pulled you in here just to show you how easy it is,” he states bluntly, folding his arms. “In fact, if I _was_ going to take anyone’s body, yours would be the prime candidate. Not that I’m going to… not now, at least.” Before you can take offense to this, he continues speaking. “But no wonder Damien didn’t hesitate when you turned up in here dead; it was almost too easy. Even if you were a little, ah, damaged.”

_Damaged._ You feel very cold all of a sudden. “Wh— I didn’t… I never told you… How do you know about that?”

“The same way I know about anything. I’m not bound here like you, you know. Maybe I can’t live without this house’s power, but what it gives me in return… sometimes I think it’s almost worth it.” He takes a moment to absorb your expression and sees that you still don’t understand. “If I want to see another outcome, something in the past, the future… as long as it’s attached to this house, it’ll show it to me.”

The cold becomes paralyzing, rooting you in place as his words sink in. “You—you mean you saw everything from before?” Your voice comes out in a hoarse whisper. You know you shouldn’t ask. It’s better not to know. Deep down, you don’t _want_ to know, but… but you have to. The smug look on Mark’s face is killing you; knowing that at last, you have the chance to prove that instinct, that gut feeling of wrongness that’s been eating at you since your death. The temptation is too much to bear. “Tell me… please.”

Grimly but with a slight hint of pleasure, he begins. “Well, things don’t get any better for anybody, I’ll tell you that much. No one gets anything good out of this.”

“Except you, of course,” you say bitterly. 

He shrugs. “Relatively speaking. I suppose I could just show it to you.”

“Go ahead, then.” You aren’t sure if you want to see it, but you don’t have much of a choice.

The darkness around you fades ( _can darkness fade?_ you wonder) into a hazy light. It’s not quite real, not quite tangible, but you can see it clearly enough. 

The scene before your non-eyes is a gruesome one: you’re in the front hall, and it takes a moment to recognize the body lying in the middle of the floor with bloodstained hands and clothes as your own. Something’s wrong with the neck, it must have broken in the fall… You force yourself to tear your gaze away, feeling slightly sick, but then you see it out of the corner of your eye. It moves— you move. And you sit up. 

That’s when you notice the Colonel. As you begin to lift yourself off the floor, he stands up, looking about how you’d expect one to look in this situation. It doesn’t make it any easier to watch. The shock, the confusion— you expect it to turn into horror, but instead he’s smiling. Laughing. Something he’d been holding rolls onto the ground; you recognize the object as Damien’s cane. It would probably be best, you think to yourself numbly, not to think about how it got there…

You’re trying to focus on what he’s saying, but your eyes keep returning to, well, your eyes. The version of you that’s now standing there stiffly, not even glancing at the dried blood coating the ground— your blood— looks entirely wrong. Too calm. Too stoic. Living, perhaps, but not quite alive. It watches in silence as the Colonel limps out of the room, calling for his friends in a daze. 

Dread sinks into your stomach like a weight as you watch yourself pick up the cane off the ground expressionlessly. Well, almost expressionlessly; there’s a flash of recognition, and then fear, before it seems to be almost forcefully wiped off with a brief shake of the head. There’s a definite look of dawning terror in the eyes now, as if something— or someone— is trapped in them.

You see yourself look down.

And you see someone else look up.

What you hear now is your own voice, breaking with panic, growing more and more desperate by the second as you beg this… whoever, whatever he is… not to leave you. He looks like Damien; it’s Damien’s face, anyway, but it’s twisted and bitter and full of something you can’t explain. 

At first, you can’t tell where your voice is coming from. But then you hear a pounding noise, and you see the mirror shatter from behind, and you understand. You understand as he stares into the broken glass, glaring at it, but almost in a pained way. You understand as he turns away, gripping the cane, and the briefest flash of regret crosses his face. But like before, it seems to silence itself before it can fully form. 

The tearful shouting and pleading continues long after the front door closes, and it doesn’t stop until you’re pulled out of the world once again.

This time, you welcome the darkness. The silence. 

 ———————————————————— 

The sound of the alarm clock jolts you out of sleep. As you shut it off, you run your hand through your hair, matted with sleep and sweat. Your eyes are sore; you must have cried in your sleep after seeing… all that. 

_It doesn’t matter_ , you keep trying to tell yourself. _It may have happened in another outcome, but this time it will be different. It’ll all be different._  

It only helps a little; the feeling of devastation, of betrayal, still lingers. You can only imagine how your other self, your mirror-self, must feel. (And they hadn’t even kissed Damien.) 

Dragging yourself out of bed, you look down at yourself and assess the damage. You aren’t nearly as hungover as you were last time, but the soreness in the rest of your body makes up for it. The bathroom mirror (which you’re feeling a little wary of at this point) shows that you don’t look as bad as you feared, only disheveled and a little red-eyed. You fix yourself up as best as you can manage and make your way towards the bedroom door. For a moment, you pause and let your hand linger on the doorknob. 

_Maybe it was a dream after all. Maybe you’ll go downstairs and everything will be just fine._

You sigh. _And_ _why stop there? Maybe you’re in your bed at home and the entirety of the past three days has been a dream. Turns out there was no party after all, imagine that._

Right.

As you finally force yourself to open the door, the sunlight pouring through the tall windows makes you squint. You’ve never been a morning person, and knowing what lies in wait for you downstairs… well, burying yourself back under the blankets is more than tempting. In fact, that’s probably exactly what you’d do if Damien weren’t standing there waiting for you. 

On instinct, your heart twists in a way it never has before. What you saw in that other reality comes flooding back to you all at once. For a moment, you forget to smile back at him; you can only manage a brief, weary half-smile. It feels different now, knowing what you know. What he’s capable of. You never could have imagined it. It never even crossed your mind as a possibility, but, well… you suppose some part of you must have known, or else you would have let him in, wouldn’t you?

“Ah, there you are,” he greets you warmly, eyes flashing with affection ( _and that’s all_ , you think; _it can’t be anything more_ ). 

“Good morning,” you say, noticing how tired and worn your voice sounds. You’re desperately trying to act normal, and thankfully, Damien doesn’t seem to notice anything’s wrong yet. He’s talking to you, saying the same things he said  before; you’re only half-listening until he cuts himself off. 

“… as I always say— Y/N?”

You look up, not really meeting his eyes. “Yes?” 

“I was hoping we could talk for a moment, about…” He rubs the top of his cane, and you can tell he’s looking for a way to bring up your encounter last night with tact. Frankly, you’d almost forgotten about it, and discussing it in detail is the last thing you want to do right now. You’ll just be interrupted in a minute anyway. 

Well, maybe that’s for the best. “Right, sure. Of course.” 

He looks around, as if someone might be listening to the two of you. And you can understand why he’d be worried; it’s not exactly… professional behavior. And besides that— even if he’d deny it— you aren’t quite up to the standards of someone who should be involved with the mayor in that way. 

_Is that why, deep down, you’re not all that surprised that he’d use you?_

The thought comes out of nowhere, and you shake your head in surprise and disgust.

_No!_ you think back, not even sure who or what you’re responding to. Wherever that thought came from, it _certainly_ wasn’t your own mind. It’s not even true. Not at all.

“Y/N?” Damien’s looking at you curiously with more than a hint of concern. “Are you all right?” 

You grimace, wondering how many times you’ll have to make him ask you that. “I’m fine. I— I’m just… thinking too much.” 

“I see,” he says, almost a little sadly. “I suppose it’s not the best time to discuss this, is it?” 

You shake your head again; this time it’s directed at him. “No, Damien, it’s not about that. Trust me, I’m… not worried about that.” 

His expression relaxes a little. “All right. I’m glad.” His face reddens slightly. “Glad that you’re not worried, I mean.” 

In spite of yourself, you smile. It’s hard for you not to be endeared by his hesitant, almost overly polite… well, you suppose you could call it flirting. There’s not really a better word for it. “I’m just glad you’re bringing it up at all. I was afraid you’d forget… or pretend you forgot. You were pretty drunk.”

He acts mildly offended. “I would never. Anyway, you were much drunker than I was.”

“Not as drunk as you think…”

He raises an eyebrow at you. “It seemed like it. Which is why nothing else happened.”

You fail to stifle a laugh. “No, I was just… disoriented, I guess.” 

Before you can elaborate further (you’re not sure you should, anyway), you hear a muffled noise from downstairs, a heavy thud. You freeze, but pretend not to have heard anything. 

To your surprise, Damien doesn’t seem to have heard it either. Or he’s very good at pretending he didn’t. That might be possible, except the rest of the house remains silent. No shouting, no footsteps, nothing. Even after a minute passes it seems as though nobody’s seen or heard anything.

“Um, I’ll be right back,” you say quickly, and before he can ask any questions, you descend the staircase. 

As you round the corner, you’re prepared for what you find, but it still makes your stomach turn. Sure enough, Mark’s body is there on the ground, exactly the same as it was last time, down to the position. That minor detail disturbs you for some reason, and you look away, backing up into the wall, but staying in the room. 

You hear the detective come in behind you before you see him.

"What the hell?" he says, snapping around to find you standing there. "What the fuck happened? Did you do this?"

He's not getting in your face the way he did last time; you wonder if that has something to do with the fact that you didn't speak to him much last night-- and in your experience, the less people talk to you, the less likely they are to be aggravated with you.

"Of course not," you tell him, more than a little irritated that you'll have to to through the whole spiel of proving your innocence again. You should be better at this by now-- it's your _job,_ for god's sake-- but for some reason, when you're the one in question, you always seem to freeze up. At least this time you can talk, though. Last time you were such a mess you could barely get a word out.

Abe looks at you suspiciously, but decides not to press you for the time being. "Well, who did, then?"

"If I _knew_ , don't you think I'd tell you?" (Well, it's not like you're saying you _don't_ know. You think you'll keep that to yourself for now, though.)

He begins to examine the body, ignoring the question. You don’t watch; in an absurd sort of way, it almost feels like Mark is staring at you. Mocking you.

The others come in just as they did before-- complete with the “murder” schtick. You suppose the house really gets a kick out of that one. You suppress the urge to roll your eyes, but the noise still makes you flinch.

Abe continues to take charge of the room, ordering everyone to stay put while he sorts things out. Nobody argues; you remember that this is still a shock to them, and you should probably focus on acting like it is to you, too.  

Despite knowing what’s going on, things still move too quickly for you to keep track of them. You still can’t understand half of what the house is doing, or how time and physics and god-knows-what-all works in here, and you find yourself spacing out until you hear Damien come in. 

“What’s going on?”

You avoid looking at him this time, remembering the way he reacted last time, the way his face fell, confused and frightened and heartbroken– you don’t want to see it again. Part of you can feel his eyes trying to catch yours, but you keep looking at the ground as Abe explains the situation. 

When you hear Damien leave the room, muttering something about going to find the Colonel, you finally force yourself to focus back on what’s happening. Something about the whole thing feels very jarring to you, in a way that’s different from last time. Nothing surprises you, nothing’s different– but that’s what surprises you. Surely _something_ should have changed, even just a little. But so far, other than your conversation with Damien, everything is playing out the same. 

Even last night, talking with Mark was the only real significant difference. You think about how random it seemed that the house threw you down that flight of stairs, but it’s starting to make sense now as you begin to piece it together. 

What if it did that not specifically to hurt you, but to get you out of the way? 

What if that was its way of showing you that there’s nothing you can do to change things after all?

As the revelation dawns on you, you almost swear you can hear something resembling a laugh in the back of your mind.


	5. Chapter 5

“Oh, it’s you.”

You have to strain to see the Colonel sitting in the corner of the darkened room. Since things do seem to be transpiring exactly as they did before, you’ve decided you might as well play along for now. So here you are, once again, feeling just as awkward as you did last time. Less intimidated, though, which is ironic— after all, you didn’t know he’d killed Mark last time, and now you do.

But you also know it wasn’t his fault. Not really, anyway. Not entirely.

You’re more afraid of the possibility that he’ll be able to tell something’s off with you. Mark picked up on it so quickly; you’re sure William will notice it too.

He doesn’t seem any different, though. Nonchalant, flippant as always. As you approach him, you do your best to keep a light but compelling tone. “I hope I’m not bothering you.”

He waves a hand dismissively. “No more than I’ve already been bothered.” Despite the shadows, you catch a hint of a wry smile. “I assume the detective sent you to get my alibi.”

“What makes you think that?” you ask, not confirming or denying.

“He doesn’t like me,” William answers matter-of-factly. “Can you imagine that?”

Half of you wants to smile; the other half is already starting to feel a tug of frustration. “Well, _I_ don’t not like you. So no, I’m not going to ask you about an alibi.” Ha. You’ve surprised him. He frowns, trying to figure out what’s happening, and you continue: “I don’t really care if you have one or not. Even if you didn’t, I could— hypothetically— make it seem like you did.”

“Oh?” Now he’s interested; he leans forward in his chair a bit. “And why, hypothetically, would you do that?”

“I told you.” You struggle to match his level of irreverence. It’s proving to be a challenge. “I don’t dislike you. And if Abe has it out for you, whether you did it or not, he’s going to think you did.”

The Colonel laughs. “Funny. That’s what Damien said. So I’ll tell you what I told him: if I cared what they thought of me, I’d be out there, wouldn’t I?” He leans back, satisfied with himself. Too satisfied. Bordering on smug.

You close your eyes briefly. This is going to be harder than you expected; you’re thinking of just dropping all your cards right now. It’s always easier for you when the guilty party isn’t in denial, but of course he’s going to make this difficult. Up until now, it surprised you that anybody could make Damien lose his temper that quickly, but you’re starting to understand. “How can I get you to trust me?” you ask him, lowering your voice.

There’s a moment of silence as the two of you stare at each other. For a second, you think he might be letting down his guard a little, but it doesn’t last. He folds his arms definitively, signaling that the conversation is over. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.” The note of warning in his voice makes you decide not to push the matter any further.

“Fine.” You turn and exit the room, huffing in frustration. All right, so you won’t be getting a confession from the Colonel yet. Fair enough.  

You’re pretty sure you’re supposed to run into Benjamin at this point, but you recall that encounter not really leading anywhere… not that he’s not good company, but you’ve seen quite enough of the wine cellar. And you definitely don’t want to go into the kitchen; you’re on edge enough as it is.

You wonder briefly if you could just skip your half-assed investigation and go find Damien right now. But in a moment of curiosity, you decide to head back into the… you’re going to call it the murder room for now. Just to see what might happen. Maybe if nothing else, you can get a chance to talk to Abe a little more.

He’s not there when you enter the room, though. Everything’s a little too quiet, eerily so. You feel as if the room itself is in another dimension– which you suppose isn’t too farfetched a notion. Nobody’s coming in. You can’t hear anything from the rest of the house. 

And then you look over at Mark. 

Well, technically it’s Mark’s body, but you’re having trouble calling it that since it appears to be sitting up. And it— he— is looking at you with a wide-eyed stare, which just confirms your earlier feeling; he’s definitely mocking you. 

Several seconds pass as you debate whether to say anything; you doubt screaming will do any good. And you know you shouldn’t be _surprised_ , but regardless of everything you’ve already seen, there’s no way this could not be jarring to you.

He stretches one arm, then the other, as he stands up somewhat shakily. Finally, he addresses you. “A little speechless there?”

You make an indignant sputtering noise. “Well— what the hell do you _expect_ me to say?”

“I don’t know. A ‘hello, nice to see you’ might be nice.” He saunters over to the bar, finds a particularly reflective glass, and begins fixing his hair, of all things. You’re almost certain now he’s just trying to get a reaction from you.

Well, he’s not the only one with a knack for being irritating. “Oh please, I’m not that good of a liar.” 

The two of you exchange sour looks. It’s a draw.

“Well, you knew this was going to happen, didn’t you?” he says at last. “You must have. I mean, you were there when my ‘body’ disappeared in that… other timeline.”

“Yes, but I didn’t actually _see_ it happen. It’s one thing to hear about a corpse going missing; it’s another to actually see it stand up and start walking around!”

“I have a name, you know,” he says dryly, rolling his eyes. “So what do you plan to do about it?”

That’s not what you expected to hear. “Do?” You pause for a second, letting everything sink in. Then you sigh. “I don’t know. Nothing, I suppose.”

He grins. “Now there’s the spirit.”

“What _can_ I do? You’re alive now. Sort of. I can’t very well let you die again, and I don’t think anybody else would believe me if I told them I saw you stand up and fix your hair before just walking out of the room.” Actually, now that you say it out loud, that’s exactly the kind of thing you’d believe about Mark.

As if reading your thoughts, he laughs. “No? Why shouldn’t they?”

You don’t answer, and you don’t laugh with him. You’re torn on what to do right now. True, nothing’s actually been happening differently so far, but are you really even trying? 

What would happen if you _did_ reveal him to everyone else? For a second, you’re almost considering it, but then you glance back over in Mark’s direction.

He’s vanished.

————————————————————

It’s colder outside than you expected it to be. It’s mid-October, true, but the sun is so bright that you’d expect it to be a little warmer. The wind insists on blowing in your face, though; between that and the brightness, you find yourself squinting a little. 

Damien’s there, just as you knew he would be. He’s facing away from you, and due to the wind, he doesn’t hear you approach until you greet him.   
“Hey.”

He turns around, as if surprised someone would find him out here. “Oh, Y/N.” It’s hard to read his tone, but you detect a note of hesitancy in it, like he’s not sure if he wants you there. It was there last time, but it still stings a little. Especially now that you have all this knowledge that he deserves to know… but you still can’t tell him. Not yet.

Although you’re longing to because of the cold, you decide not to get too close. “How are you doing?” You wish you had a better question, a better answer for him, but that’s all you can really say right now. 

No response. He turns and looks out at the sky, the vast expanse of trees surrounding the house. It’s so quiet. Even the wind has died down. His arms rest on the railing, and you both wait in silence.

After what seems like ages, he motions for you to join him. Slowly, you do; you’re almost afraid to make any sudden movements for fear that it will be wrong somehow. And you want to be _right_ , for once; you just want to do the right thing for _someone_.  You want to be enough. You hope your presence, your company, will be enough for now.

He breaks the silence, both startling and relieving you. “I’m sorry about earlier. What you saw, with the Colonel… I lost my temper and it wasn’t right.” He does look genuinely sorry, which twists at your heart. He shouldn’t be the one who’s sorry— not here, anyway, not now. Not for this.

“Don’t worry about that,” you tell him quietly. “You had every right to be upset.” He simply nods; you see from his eyes that he’s been crying. It’s killing you not to reach out and take his hand, but it’s not the right time or place. Rather than risk the temptation, you keep talking. “He was your friend. I mean, he was a friend to all of us, and it’s… it’s not fair.” 

You wince, remembering as you speak that those were the words Mark himself used. At least you think it was him. God, you don’t know anymore. And you know you’re certainly not helping. _You know you should just go back inside, that Damien would be better off left alone right now rather than with you;_ _even when you can manage to make a difference, all you ever seem to do is make things worse–_

He’s hugging you. In an instant, he’s wrapped both arms around you tightly, locking you in a warm embrace. It takes a moment for you to process, but rather than questioning why, you wrap your arms around him in return, just letting it happen. 

When you both finally manage to let go, you realize you’re shivering a little, but you don’t care. You don’t have anything left to say, so you just give him a cautious, sad half-smile. 

The two of you stand in a comfortable, melancholic quiet– which you appreciate, knowing it’s probably the last you’ll get all day– until you’re finally forced to go back inside. 

And when you get there, of course, you’re told what you already know. The body’s missing. 

But what the detective doesn’t see is the window just behind him, where on the other side, Mark looks back at you, laughing silently.


	6. Chapter 6

As Abe leads you through the house, monologuing to you the entire time, you find yourself tuning him out. Partly because you’ve heard it all before, but also partly because you keep hearing that sort of… well, it’s not a voice exactly, but it’s something in the back of your mind, and it isn’t you. 

It has a lot to say. Mostly insults and belittlement. You try to ignore it, but when it claws at the deepest reaches of your mind, picking apart your insecurities… well, it’s hard.

It must be this _thing_ , this entity that lives in the house… controls the house? _Is_ the house? You don’t really know; you still have a minimal amount of information on the logistics of the house and the void and whatnot. 

Regardless of what it is, it’s very good at making you feel terrible. So far you’ve managed to block out the worst of it, but it takes a considerable amount of energy to keep it completely at bay. You wonder if Mark knows anything about it.

_Well, of course he does. Why do you think he killed himself?_

You’re not actually sure if that thought came from the entity or from your own darker subconscious; either way, it sends a chill up your spine.   
And once you’re standing in front of his closed bedroom door, the feeling grows even stronger.

You open it slowly, as if something might jump out and bite you. It doesn’t, of course; the room is in the same familiar, albeit disastrous, state that you remember. Clothes and pillows thrown in disarray all over the floor. Unmade bed. And over on the table near the window, sure enough, the shattered glass of the toppled picture frame.

But upon closer inspection, you realize the picture itself is gone.

“Shit,” you mutter to yourself, not even realizing you spoke out loud until Abe looks over in interest.

“What’d you find?” he asks.

“Um…” You can’t explain how you know about the missing photo, so you settle for something simple. “There’s some broken glass over here, but I’m not sure where it came from.”

He walks over to inspect the table, frowning. “Huh. Someone must have broken the picture and gotten rid of it, then.” He picks up one of the remaining photos, looking at it carefully for a long time. Finally, he nods, as if confirming something to himself.  “Good work.”

You give a slight nod and cautious smile back, still racking your brain for a possible explanation as to why the picture would be gone. As Abe continues to comb the area for possible clues, you gaze out the window, losing yourself briefly in thought. Once you notice the Colonel’s familiar figure suddenly appear in the reflection of the glass— seemingly out of nowhere— you turn around, snapping back to reality.

But he seems to realize that you were expecting him this time around, and it appears to throw him off for a moment. The two of you simply engage in a short staring contest, neither of you wanting to be the first to speak. You even raise your eyebrows, as if daring William to try any tricks. 

By now you realize that he’s bonded to the house enough to move around as he pleases. Space, distance— they’re at his command, although you get the feeling that he’s not as in control as he pretends to be. Or thinks he is. But how would you possibly go about explaining that to him?

You can’t.

When he finally begins to talk, Abe looks up in surprise, not realizing William had even entered the room. Before the flustered detective has time to protest, though, you’re lead out of the bedroom (much to your relief) and towards the backyard.

“Colonel,” you say, interrupting him in the middle of his ramble.

He stands up a little straighter, a little stiffer, as if on guard suddenly. “Yes?”

“I…” You hesitate. “I just want to say I’m sorry for the way I approached you earlier.” You surprise even yourself with the statement, but it’s true, in a way. “I didn’t mean to sound suspicious of you.” 

(Once again, it’s not a lie. You didn’t want to let on that you knew, after all.)

The frown on his face is one of deep thought rather than discontent, and you relax a little, satisfied with your comment. “Well. Apology accepted,” he finally says. There’s a hint of confusion in his voice, and it’s understandable why. He clearly hasn’t really expected anyone to be on his side.

When Damien shows up, rounding the corner of the house, you aren’t too surprised to see that the Colonel’s simply vanished this time, rather than pulling the stunt of jumping into the pool. You’re almost disappointed; it had made you laugh last time. 

You have to lie and say you haven’t seen him— but of course, there he is, behind you once again as soon as Damien’s out of sight.

“I’m not sure I understand your intentions,” William’s saying to you as you follow him past the pool and over towards the golf course. “It seems like you know more than you’re letting on.”  He leans towards you ever so slightly. “But that doesn’t make any _sense_ now, does it?”

_Exactly._  

You don’t have an answer to that; he’s already running down the stairs into the grassy area anyhow.

And then then Damien returns, right on cue, looking around for the Colonel to no avail. He turns to you, and suddenly you get the notion that perhaps it was you he was looking for all along.   
He speaks the words you’ve been waiting for. “Would you accompany me for a moment?”

“Of course,” you say, maybe a bit too eagerly. You start to walk with him, your short, quick stride matching his. He’s nervously twisting his cane, you notice— a dead giveaway that he has something on his mind. But not wanting to push him, you give him a moment to collect his thoughts.

Then, to your surprise, he stops in his tracks mid-step, looking at you with a troubled expression. “Y/N?”

You stop as well— what else can you do? “Yes?”

“I…” He sighs, pushing a lock of hair that refuses to stay slicked back out of his eyes. “God, I feel terrible saying this. Look, I meant to talk to you about this… investigation that you and the detective have going on, but in truth, I really just want to ask you something.”

“Oh.” Somehow you’re relieved. “Of course,” you say again. “You can ask me anything.”

He purses his lips slightly. “It’s not something I really know how to ask. I just…” He avoids your eyes and speaks the rushed words: “I have to know for sure… you didn’t do it, did you?”

As his face reddens with shame, you feel something pounding in your head; something you can’t describe. 

It hurts. He didn’t ask you this last time; he trusted you without question last time. What’s happened? What are you doing wrong to make him lose his trust in you?

_Is any of this worth it if he won’t even trust you?_

“D- Damien…” you stammer, at a loss for words. You shake your head, mostly in disbelief. “God. Of course I didn’t do it. I know I’ve been a little more… distant today, but I promise you, there’s a reason for it.”

“But you won’t tell me what it is.”

The pain inside you deepens. “I _can’t_. It’s not safe for you to know. Hell, I don’t even understand it at all; I can’t drag you into it.”

His grip on his cane is tight now; he’s looking at you without a hint of a smile, which is a rarity for him. “I’m telling you, I _want_ you to drag me into it. It feels as if everyone in this house is walking around knowing something I don’t, and… it’s got me on edge, all right? I don’t like it. So whatever it is, I think I deserve to know.”

You don’t know how to respond to that. He’s right. You _know_ he’s right. Is there really a reason for you not to tell him? It’s not like lying to him will protect him now that he suspects something’s amiss.

His voice softens apologetically. “Y/N. Look at me, please.”

You do. His dark brown eyes, normally warm and sparkling with ambition, are weary-looking. Guilt surges through you, as it has so many times since you’ve been back here.

“You trust me, don’t you?” he asks.

Remembering his words to you when you were both in the void, you bite your lip. 

But despite what you saw in that awful alternate-reality vision, you do. You always do. “More than anything.”

“Then please,” he says quietly. “Tell me what’s been happening with you.”

What’s happening with _you_. Somehow, for reasons you can’t fathom, it’s you he cares about. Not the house, not even the murder, really. _You._

And you decide right then that whatever punishment, whatever physical or psychological torture the house might put you through now, it’s outweighed by wanting to keep Damien’s trust. You need him on your side now more than ever. 

“All right,” you say slowly, nodding as you try to collect the right words. “I’ll tell you as much as I can. But listen, Dames, it won’t be easy to hear— or to believe. Even if you think you’ll believe me, what I’m about to tell you is… it’s not anything I can really explain. But I promise you, I _swear_ to you it’s all true. All right?”

He nods, a slight frown of confusion and worry creasing his brow. “All right. I’m listening.”

“Okay.” You take a deep breath, not sure where you want to begin. 

“I do know what happened to Mark,” you settle on saying. “And it’s not because I had _anything_ to do with it. I didn’t hurt him. I tried to stop it, even.” ( _At least, you did this time around…_ ) “It’s ugly, but I think you should know that he… he planned it all.”

Damien’s face shifts into an expression of disbelief and horror. “ _What_?”

“I know,” you say softly. “I know.”

It takes a minute for him to process the information. When he looks back at you, he takes a deep breath before he speaks. “Why?”

You could tell him it’s all because of Celine, and he would probably believe you, but you decide that’s neither fair nor accurate. “Honestly? I don’t completely know. It started because of everything that happened, and I think it just… hurt him so badly that he stopped thinking rationally.”

Damien exhales; it comes out as a shudder. “Fuck.”

You hate the way the guilt sinks into his eyes, so you hurry to explain as much as you can. “There wasn’t anything any of us could have done. And I mean that literally. Because this— this whole thing that’s happened now, it’s not the first time he’s done this.”

“I…” Damien shakes his head slowly. “I don’t think I understand. What do you mean?”

It’s your intention to continue with the explanation, but suddenly you realize something you forgot about as the sound of a gunshot thunders from inside the house.

Your eyes meet Damien’s alarmed ones, and you hurriedly tell him that you’ll finish telling him later. The two of you rush to the back door of the house and, sure enough, the scene that awaits you inside is one you remember well. Abe and William are locked in a standoff, pointing their guns suspiciously at one another.

“What is going _on_ here?” Damien demands, looking at his friends in exasperation.

They both answer him at the same time, loud voices overlapping one another with explanations and accusations you can only half understand.

“— was _telling_ you, it was target practice.”

“—the hell do you have to practice for? Planning to take out one of us next?”

“I’d suggest you keep your accusations to yourself, Detective—”

“Would you two just shut up?” you snap. 

The room goes silent, everyone turning to stare at you. Some seem to be more surprised than others— Damien looks wary, knowing your habit of intervening in heavy arguments. (He always said it could get you killed if you weren’t careful. It’s just now occurring to you that he was exactly right.) 

“Just… put the guns down,” you plead, lowering your voice. “This is ridiculous. Nobody’s hurt right now; can’t we just keep it that way?”

The two men glance at one another. Neither clearly wants to be the one to surrender, but after what feels like hours, they both slowly lower their weapons. Abe continues to glare at William, shaking his head, but you can feel William’s eyes on you. 

The tension in the air is hot and thick, but before anyone can say anything else, the front door swings open with a flourish. Light spills into the front hallway, partially blocked by the small, black-clad woman standing there.

The Colonel seems to forget you entirely then. “Celine!”

You’re certain you’re the only one who feels a brief, dark tremor in the air, as if the very house is shaking with rage.

“What is all _this_ about?” she asks, raising her eyebrows and looking at the semicircle of mildly heated people exchanging uncomfortable looks.

Damien ignores her question. “What are you doing here?”

She gives him an icy stare; he doesn’t even flinch. “This is _my_ house too, you know. I should ask you all the same thing.”

The urge to roll your eyes is strong, but you resist, deciding to stay out of this one. Everyone else so far, you’ve known more or less how to deal with, even the Colonel. But Celine… she’s something else. You don’t want to get on her bad side— at least, not right out of the gate. 

_She’s best to avoid altogether_.

You can’t really argue with that.

“Mark invited us,” Damien explains calmly. “We’ve all been here since yesterday.”

“I see.” Celine looks around the room. “And where is Mark, exactly?”

The heavy air grows a thousand times heavier all of a sudden.

“He… he’s dead,” Damien finally says. He’s still clearly deeply unnerved by what you told him, and you can’t blame him. He closes his eyes briefly, letting the news sink in.

“What?” Celine’s face falls; she’s definitely not faking the surprise, and for a second she almost looks vulnerable. Shaking her head, she looks to her left, over towards William for confirmation. He gives a slight shrug, then seems to think the better of it and nods. “How?”

“He was murdered,” Abe explains bluntly, and you flinch as the lightning flashes.

If she seemed surprised before, now she just looks… confused, as if she’d fully expected to hear a different explanation for Mark’s death. “Wh— by who?”

“We’ve been trying to figure that out,” you speak up. Celine looks at you, as if just noticing that you’re there. You can see the spark of recognition as she seems to piece together who you are. “And it’s not the easiest thing to do, because the body’s gone missing. So that doesn’t exactly help things.”

Now you’ve certainly gotten her attention. “Missing?” Her eyebrows shoot up in interest. “Show me. I mean, show me where he was.”

Abe leads the group into the murder room (the name’s stuck with you now), but you fall back, instead walking down the front hall, over to the small corner under the stairs. Mark’s sitting in one of the chairs, and he waves you over as casually as if he were inviting you for a drink. With nothing else to do, you take a seat in the other chair.

“I still don’t know why she bothered to come here,” he mutters mostly to himself. “It’s not like she cared.”

Part of you almost wants to say that maybe she _did_ care, in some absurd attempt to comfort Mark, but you decide against it. “Well… she lived here for awhile,” you say slowly. “The house… it shows you things, doesn’t it? Maybe it did the same for her. Brought her here.”

But he shakes his head. “It’s not the same,” he explains. “Celine doesn’t really _need_ to be shown things, she just… sees them. Most of the time, it’s not anything she can do anything about. Things that don’t make any sense until it’s too late.” 

He presses his lips tightly, staring at nothing for awhile. “She used to mention dreams she’d have about a storm. A thunderstorm.”

“Lightning,” you say in realization. You’re not sure what to do with the information. It at least explains why she was the only one who took any real notice of it, or showed any real concern.

Mark nods, grimacing. The two of you remain in silence as you ponder what it could mean until he jumps out of his chair, startling you.   
“Come on,” he says, grabbing you by the arm and pulling you to your feet.

“Hey!” you protest, probably a little too loudly, trying to shake him off. “What do you think you’re doing?” 

He ignores you, dragging you behind him as he starts to go up the stairs; you have no choice but to follow. You could make a run for it, but you know that he’s probably not going to hurt you. He has no reason to. At least that’s what you tell yourself, even as he enters the small room at the end of the hall. The room where Celine and Damien both disappeared before, just… gone and left trapped in the void, and the fear sinks into your stomach like a stone. 

“Why are we—”

The door shuts and locks on its own; Mark isn’t the least bit fazed by it. Of course he’s not. 

“I can’t let you ruin this,” he tells you in a strange tone. “I’m sorry. I was going to let you try, but— they’re down there, _together._ ” He practically spits the final word out. “I want him to fucking _hurt_. And for that to happen, he can’t know that it wasn’t his fault.”

Everything’s pitch black. You start to question him once again, but at once you realize he doesn’t seem to be there anymore. You back up towards where you think the wall is, but you never feel it hit you. All you feel is cold. Cold and emptiness.

“Mark! Goddammit, where are you?” you call out. And it confirms what you feared before— he’s dragged you into the void once again. 

You don’t hear an answer.

“Hello?” you call again, a little less confidently. Nothing. 

Panic begins to creep up your skin. You don’t know how time works in here— if he’s indeed trapped you in here… you have no idea how much time you have to get out. How quickly he can fuck everything up, or what he’ll do now…

Desperately trying to keep yourself calm, you start to think of ways that you could possibly fix this. Or, if somehow you’re unable to escape, how you could  repair any damage that he could do. You think about Damien, wonder how long it could take him to realize you’re gone, and it comforts you a little. It can’t be that long, can it?

As you think of Damien, you begin to get the sense that you’re not alone anymore. You turn around, prepared to face Mark, but what you see instead stops you cold.

“Y/N… you’re still here?”

It’s Damien. 

But something’s wrong; he’s not the one you’ve been speaking to all day, trying so hard to make things right with. You look at him closely, taking in the way his hands tremble; the aura of blue now darkened, almost pulsing in a a painful-looking way; the hollow, helpless look in his eyes as he stares at you in bewilderment.

And you realize he’s the one you left behind.


	7. Chapter 7

“Damien…?” you say hesitantly, not sure if you trust what you see. “How did you—“

He cuts you off by running up and grabbing you by the shoulders, eyes glazed with fear and obsession. 

“Oh god, Y/N, I’ve been looking for you everywhere!” Although he’s almost translucent, the feeling of his hands, clutching your arms as if he’s afraid to let go, is as real and solid as anything. “I… I don’t know how long it’s been.” His words are rushed, running together; between that and the intense echo of his voice, it’s hard to understand what he’s saying.

You’re still looking at him, stunned. “It hasn’t been very long… well, not for me, anyway,” you manage to tell him. “I went back.”

His eyes, almost completely encompassed in shadow, widen. “What did you say?” His grip on you loosens a bit.

“I was in here,” you explain as calmly as you can manage, “and then suddenly, it sent me back to the beginning. To last night, the night of the party. And I’ve been trying to fix—“

“You went back on your own?” he interrupts you. “How? How did you do that?” He’s trembling now. “And why are you back here?”

You sigh. “It’s a long story,” you say. “Mark sent me back in here— he didn’t want me to interfere with his plans.”

Damien’s face goes dark, filling with a bitter hatred that you’ve never seen on him before. The closest thing you’ve ever seen to it was that… person, the one you saw in the vision of the other reality. The one with Damien’s face and those empty, cruel eyes. It frightens you, shaking you to the core. 

“Mark…” he hisses, voice tinged with venom. “Was he still alive, then? When you were out there?”

You start to answer him, but then you begin to wonder what he’ll do if you do tell him anything. Part of you is screaming not to, not to let him in… but it’s _Damien_ , even if he is corrupted and broken. 

Your heart aches to see him like this, and all you want is to return to the real world, to never see this place again. If this is what happens to people, it’s only a matter of time before it begins to consume you, too.

_But how can you not help him, when he’s right here in front of you?_

“I have to get back,” you mumble, pulling yourself away from him. You don’t quite know how you’ll manage to do that, but you’re afraid of what will happen if you have to listen to him any longer. “I’m sorry.”

He doesn’t seem to notice that you didn’t answer his question; he stands in dead silence for a brief moment. Then, to your surprise, he begins to laugh. 

“No. You can’t do that. You wouldn’t do that to me,” he says— no, _begs_. “Please, Y/N. Don’t leave me here again. I’ve been waiting for you to come back. Alone. And you… you’re the only one who can help me.”

God, the voice… it’s so convincing, but the echo is unbearable. You want to cover your ears. 

“You’re not him,” you stammer, shaking your head. “I mean, you used to be but… oh Damien, what _happened_ to you?”

_You did this to him. You left him there with no way out. And maybe Celine did too; maybe she found another way out and abandoned him… you could hate her for that, but isn’t it the same as what you did, in the end?_

“Please,” he begs, voice high and strained. “It’s so lonely in here, Y/N. I’m sorry. I’m sorry I had to make you choose like that. I promise, nothing will happen to you, just please let me go back with you.” He takes a step forward; you take a step back.

“I… I’m sorry, Damien,” you tell him. “You can’t come back with me.”

He cries out wordlessly. It’s physically painful to listen to. “Y/N! Don’t let this happen! I’ll die in here!”

You continue to shake your head, tears burning in your eyes. It’s just a trick, you have to keep telling yourself. He’s not thinking clearly; he’ll do anything to get out of here. He’ll gain your trust and steal your body.

“You have to help me, Y/N…”

Just a trick of the house. You can’t let it get to you; you need to focus. To get back to the real Damien, who must be waiting for you… right?

“Please… I thought you were my friend. I thought even, maybe…”

That does it. It’s too much. You fall to your knees. 

“ _Stop it_!” you sob, and you can’t tell if you’re talking to the house or this broken Damien standing in front of you, but you just need it to stop.

“That’s enough.” You hear a commanding voice from behind you, and you watch in a mix of relief and pain as the other Damien disappears before your eyes. Someone offers a hand and assists you to your feet. You turn to see Mark, looking deeply uncertain as to why he helped you.

You can’t quite bring yourself to thank him, though. “What _was_ that?” you ask in a shaky voice.

“Same sort of thing I showed you before,” he tells you, sounding tired. “Another possibility, another reality.”

“So he was real after all?” you say, aghast.

“Not quite. I don’t know. He might have been the result of that other timeline, he might not. What does it matter?”

It matters. You can’t quite explain why, but it matters. The instinct inside you, the unsettling seed of dread that’s been lurking around you all day, has begun to sprout. Your instincts tell you Mark isn’t being entirely honest with you. But it’s not the time to dwell on it. 

“Can you just get me out of here now?” you ask him quietly. 

He nods, and the darkness vanishes. You’re both standing in the hallway upstairs, just outside of the room you recall entering before. Nothing seems to be too drastically out of the ordinary, and nobody seems to be around so you dare to whisper a single question to Mark.

“Why? Why’d you bring me back?”

He looks around uncomfortably. “Don’t worry about it. Just forget what you saw in there.” You can tell from the look on his face that he knows there’s no way you’ll forget, and you get the feeling it’s too late anyway. The void-Damien’s seen you; he knows you’re here, and he knows it’s possible to come back to a timeline you never really belonged in. 

“Please, just go back downstairs,” Mark says. He’s looking at the ground, not you, but you can still see enough of his face to know that he knows he’s no longer in control of any of this.

————————————————————————

“Oh, there you are,” Damien says in a relieved tone as you rejoin the group, crowded around in the murder room. “We were wondering what happened—”

“Yes,” Celine interjects, giving you a very thorough once-over. “Seems you ran off pretty quickly. Without telling anyone.”

Your face burns with the implications she’s placing on you, but you can’t think of a suitable excuse off the top of your head. “I- I just needed a moment alone,” you force yourself to say. Most of them seem satisfied with your answer, but Damien looks worried, and Abe gives you an odd look. It’s not a look of suspicion— at least you don’t think it is— but it’s something you don’t want to confront right now, so you ignore them both and concentrate on the conversation at hand. “What did I miss, then?”

The Colonel smiles with a glint of mischief in his eyes. “Well, we’ve just finished discussing how we’re no longer allowed to say the word— ”

“William!” Celine snaps, cutting him off.

“What?” he protests. “I wasn’t going to _say_ it.” It’s obvious he’s lying. It’s also obvious that Celine isn’t as annoyed with him as she’s acting, which you make a mental note of. Whether William truly intended to make amends with Mark or not, it’s undeniable that there’s still _something_ happening between him and Celine. 

It’s something you can’t ignore— not because they’re flaunting it, but because the angry pulsating feeling you sensed from the house earlier is now almost constant. It dawns on you that it must be coming from Mark, who you can’t see at the moment, but you’re certain he must be watching. You’re torn; you pity the man, but you also want to backhand him across the face.

Then again, you suppose you’re not the only one in the house to feel that way.

Before you know it, the group is following Celine once again, this time into the dining room. Everyone takes a seat around the large circular table. 

You remember this, too, and you remember what happens next. Internally, you begin to panic. _Now’s the time to speak up_ , you think to yourself. If you really want to change things, you need to say something that will actually diverge the course of action, not just make your friends confused and suspicious of you. 

But on the other hand, you know that a warning from you, no matter how drastic, would mean virtually nothing to her. You decide to stay quiet for the time being.

“So what can you do to help us, exactly?” Abe’s asking. For once, you feel grateful for his unrelenting skepticism. The man seems to be suspicious of everyone he meets, after all; his instincts have to be right eventually. 

_Don’t trust the Seer._ The note you remember seeing in the study, amongst the chaotic mess of papers and facts and secrets and alibis, suddenly surfaces in your mind. It might be wise to follow its advice.

Celine’s unwavering confidence impresses you, you have to admit. “There are things about this house that none of you could understand,” she says, looking over every individual. Her eyes land on you; you don’t look away. “Things that most people, in fact, couldn’t even begin to understand. But I’ve seen things here before, and I have a deep connection with this place.”

_Yes. So deep, indeed, that she abandoned it before it could get a proper hold on her._

There’s no doubt in your mind that _that_ thought wasn’t yours. You don’t even want to consider what it could possibly mean. Although you have a pretty good idea of the ways the house is capable of breaking otherwise good people… And despite Celine not exactly being in your favor at the moment, you don’t wish that on her in the least.

She finally turns to speak to you. “You’ve been awfully quiet,” she says. (Good to know you’ve apparently made the exact same impression as you did before.)

“I usually am,” you retort, pretending not to notice her accusatory tone. “I don’t have anything to say that would be helpful to you at the moment.”

That gets her attention. “Maybe so,” she says, as if thinking something over. You know where this is going. “But I still think you could be very helpful to me.”

_“Useful”. The word she means is “useful”._

Yes, you’re aware of that. But still, you’re fairly sure she has good intentions. (Even if they do involve sacrificing you to the void.) “How so?”

She stands, motioning for you to do the same. “Come with me.” She begins to make her way towards the stairs, looking at you, obviously expecting you to follow.

You hesitate. You’re not going to play this game— not the way she has in mind, anyway— but you _do_ think that if you could speak to her alone, she might be able to help you. Maybe she won’t consider you so disposable if you can prove that you know more than she thinks you do. It’s worth a shot, anyway.

So you follow the Seer. And after a moment, Damien stands and begins to follow you. He stops the two of you halfway up, turning to look at his sister. “Celine. Are you all right? About… everything?”

But she barely looks at him, continuing to walk upstairs. “I’m fine, Damien.”

He moves quickly, blocking her way. “Tell me what you’re planning to do.” It’s an order, and the way he says it makes you wonder if this isn’t the first time he’s witnessed her do something like this— used someone as a means of dipping into the void without having to go in herself. 

The expressions that pass between them confirm it. You think back to last time, how Damien avoided looking at you directly as he watched you follow her. Could he have known…?

No. You don’t want to think about that.

“I know what I’m doing this time,” she insists sharply, folding her arms. “You need to trust me if you want everyone to get out of here alive.” She steps around Damien, reaching the top of the stairs.

He doesn’t stop; you can see the tension racking his body as he twists his cane. “This isn’t necessary,” he says. Finally he addresses you, a few steps below him. “Don’t feel like you have to do this.”

“I…” You don’t move. “I don’t.” You know you don’t sound convincing. “But before we do…whatever this is,” you continue, choosing your words very carefully, “I need to talk to both of you. Alone.”

Celine gives you a questioning frown.

Damien nods. “Of course.”

————————————————

The three of you sit in the small, darkened room. Celine’s gone and set up her equipment on the table, although you told her you weren’t promising to do anything. They look at you expectantly, waiting for you to speak. 

It’s harder than you thought it would be. The risk you’re taking by telling them the truth is unfathomable. And who knows if it’ll make a difference, even if they do believe you? 

Still, though. You can’t just sit back and let things get any worse.

“Damien,” you begin. “You remember what I was telling you earlier?” He nods, trying to keep a neutral face; you push on. “I think you both need to know how I know what really happened to Mark.”

“Wait, what?” Celine says incredulously. You don’t acknowledge it.

“We’re listening,” Damien assures you.

You take a deep breath. “Everything that’s happened so far, since the moment I got here… I’ve seen it before. More than seen, actually. I’ve… lived through it.” 

They’re both silent; you can’t bring yourself to look at either one of them. “Celine, you say you know things about this house that no one else here knows? Well, you’re wrong. I know about it, probably more than you do.” She opens her mouth to either question you or speak in protest. 

But you continue to let the words spill out. “I know that it can put you in whatever room it wants to, no matter where you think you are. I know that it drives people mad, and makes them do things they would _never_ do. I know that it made Mark kill himself once, and I know that it can cheat death as if it never happened, so he did it again and again, until finally he decided to make it someone else’s fault.” 

You pause briefly just to let everything sink in. “And I know that even if you manage not to die in the _traditional_ sense, it can steal you away and send you to its version of hell whenever it wants. Your body and your soul, they’re not yours here. Everything belongs to the house.”

Not to your surprise, neither of them speak for several seconds. In the silence, you can hear your heart pounding in your ears, which you take as a good sign. You’re still here. 

Damien speaks first. “I have no reason not to believe you, Y/N,” he says slowly, almost reluctantly. “I know you wouldn’t lie to me about something as important as this… and I can’t ignore the fact that this house has made me question my sanity once or twice.” He lets out a low, joyless laugh. “But if I’m being honest, I don’t understand a fucking thing that’s going on here. Everything you just said… I have questions about every bit of it.”

“I’m sorry,” you tell him helplessly. (For what, you’re not entirely sure.) “I do too, if it makes you feel any better. I just don’t know what to do. This entire time, I’ve  been trying to do everything the way I should’ve done it before… but it doesn’t seem to make much difference. Mark’s still dead.”

“Sounds like you couldn’t help that, though,” Celine finally speaks. “If he did, in fact, die a number of times before all this happened.”

You’re a little surprised; for some reason you didn’t expect her to be on board outright. “So you follow everything I said?”

“More or less,” she says. “Some of it, I already knew. That’s how I’m pretty sure you’re telling the truth.  You know that things like space, and time, and even death don’t mean the same thing here.” She folds her hands and rests them on the table. “And there’s just no way you could know that. You’ve never been here before.”

It strikes you how calm she is, and it’s unnerving. “I didn’t think you’d be that quick to believe me.”

“Well,” she shrugs, “I’ve seen a lot of things. And too many of them have been here, in this house.” She looks at you curiously. “So what happened, exactly? Before you… came back here, I mean.”

You give them both an abridged recount of everything that led up to your death and subsequent “second chance”. Damien winces more than once, and he looks positively anguished when you explain that it was the Colonel who shot you, and again when you explain about leaving the two of them behind in the void— or was it the other way around? You honestly can’t remember anymore.

After everything is said that needs to be said, you give them another minute to process. Celine is still staring at you intensely.   
“So you came back here on your own,” she says to you, and you nod in confirmation. “There wasn’t a body for you to take; you just… appeared?”

“That’s right,” you tell her, a little uneasy.

“I’m still trying to figure out how that can be possible,” she muses. “I suppose you just… took the place of the ‘you’ that was already here.”

“What does it matter, really?” Damien asks. You can tell by the sound of his voice that your conversation with him is far from over.

Celine explains herself. “Because there are also different versions of us somewhere out there. Or in there. And if Y/N just suddenly found themself here, like they say they did—“

You catch on. “—Then you think the same thing could happen with you two.” 

Fuck. You didn’t really think about that. And the other Damien (whose most recent encounter with you, you’ve decided to leave out) knows you were able to find a way here. How long could it take for him to do the same?

As the three of you mull over the information and possibilities a little while longer, one thing you fail to mention is the noise in your brain, which is louder than ever. It’s hard to distinguish most of it; a lot of it just sounds like incoherent screaming. Even as you leave the room, at last, descending the stairs once again, it doesn’t go away.

“I need a moment… to think. Alone,” Damien tells you, somewhat apologetically, and you nod in understanding. You hate that you’re putting him through this, but part of you still feels it’s the right thing to do.

——————————————————

“Oh boy… you know you’ve done it now, right?”

The voice comes from around the corner, but you know who it is without looking. “Don’t start, Mark,” you groan. “I needed them to trust me. I can’t do this on my own.”

He shakes his head, almost sadly. “You _must_ be trying to get everyone killed. You dragged the two of them into this, and now they’re in just as much danger as you are.”

Every muscle in your body suddenly tenses at his words. “What the fuck is _that_ supposed to mean?”

“The more you blame the house,” he states simply, “the more likely it is to kill you. Think about last time. Everybody who knew that this whole thing was the house’s fault, and not any of ours? They wound up dead. It let William live because he blamed himself. It took Celine and Damien, and by the time they knew the true depths of what this place can do, it was too late.”

It’s hard to breathe now. “Wh- why didn’t you tell me that _before_?” you cry out, feeling more betrayed than ever. “If you knew it was just going to kill them again— why didn’t you warn me? I wouldn’t have _told_ them if I knew!” Tears of rage stream down your face, but you don’t pay attention to them. 

You just watch Mark standing there. Looking as dead as he actually is, physically and emotionally. 

And then he laughs.

That breaks you. “What the fuck is the matter with you— why won’t you help me change things?” Before you realize what you’re doing, you lunge towards Mark and punch him in the face. His head jerks to the side; when he looks back at you, you can see blood running from his nose. But he’s perfectly calm, which just makes you even more enraged. 

“Nobody here deserves this!” you scream at him, not caring if anybody hears you. “Not William, not Celine, not me, and certainly not Damien!”

You stop cold.

Damien.

_Finally catching on, aren’t you?_

He went off alone.

You don’t know where he went.   
But he’s alone.   
And he knows everything.

And it’s your fault.

_Better look for him now, before it’s too late._


End file.
